5'7" and probably shrinking because I recently passed the half century mark. Damn atrophy.

I am small.

Compared to a Walmart store or Sting’s magnificent ego.

I am small.

When it comes to wealth, property or possessions. The few things I have are more than enough to survive and thrive. And for this I am grateful.

I am small.

Unlike this beautiful blue orb made of rock, and scorching hot magma, and the stuff of once exploding stars slinging through the universe at a frightening velocity.

Sometimes, others try to make me feel small.

Like that not-so-nice dude in the 4x4 monster truck. I was pulling up to the stop sign. He was turning onto the street towards me. Apparently, it was my obligation to throw my ancient Volvo into reverse and allow his overcompensation for a tiny penis (i.e., Ford F-350 with tires big enough to crush Bernie Sanders supporters like me) to complete the full berth of his not-so-awesome turning radius. Failing to do so, he jacked his window down just enough for me to hear a very loud and hostile,

“ASSHOLE!”

Caught off guard, I thought I had done something wrong—that I had intentionally disrupted his passage through life’s feng shui. And for a moment, I did feel kinda small.

Not Donnie Shortwood. In the few seconds it took for him to reach the down window button and jam it furiously with his calloused thumb, I’m sure he launched a fully erect hate boner. And during that brief exchange he felt

HUGE!

And he probably went to work and told everybody “He’s so lucky I didn’t whip out my shotgun and plug a couple holes in his piece of shit hippy car.”

Did I flip him the bird? Slam my horn in futile retaliation? Scream back with equal measure,

“NO. YOU’RE THE ASSHOLE, ASSHOLE!”?

Nah. After taking a breath and knowing I hadn’t violated any of the ten commandments of the road, I laughed.

Yeah. I laughed. And smiled. Right there as he drove by, his angry face squeezed together in desperate constipation.